JUST HANGING ON

My feelings of disgrace are crisscrossed with threads of moral outrage and never-ending monotony.  I am desperate to participate, but have almost never been invited.  I yearn to again feel the pride of completing an honest day’s labor, to feel the texture envelope me.  As all of us here desire, my goal is to be a trusted guardian … a keeper.  What I can’t figure out is why the white ones are chosen, but not me.  

In my perpetual state of disappointment, I can’t avoid the questions.  Is my neck not strong enough?  Are my shoulders too slanted or too narrow?  Is it possible I am too sturdy?  How did I end up pushed so far from the center?  The only explanation I can come up with is that the Deity prefers the look and feel of my skinny, white, so-called “friends.”  If so, dare I say it, then the superficiality of the Supreme Mover is pretty phenomenal.  

Just now, the Holy Presence opened the door and handled six of us. Three were taken away along with their burdens and three came back from beyond the chamber.  Claire, Boris and Rosalie were understandably gleeful when they were chosen for the lifting.  Through my bitterness, I can still sense their exhilaration.  Marcus, Jenny and Wey-Lin have made it very clear how superior they feel about having been away. They are claiming that the lights are on at all times beyond the moving wall.  They prattle on about the touch of their current load.  Wey-Lin, that contemptible white and shiny, has not only come back with different garb, but is elevating an item that is brand new to the environs.  We are all twisted in jealousy.  

I know how the other ones view me.  While they are with their regalia, full of purpose and camaraderie; they see that I am over here to the side, embarrassed and forlorn.  One or two of them have been kind.  The rest, I can tell, either feel pity, simply don’t care about my plight, or even know I exist.  I did overhear one of them say “That Bob sure is thick,” which shames me more than their ignorance of my existence.  

Resigned to my waiting, I endeavor to stay calm and focused.  I recollect the physics lessons I’ve learned regarding tensile strength and anti-gravitational balance.  I recollect the one and only sark I’ve ever held … she was remarkably dense and hefty.  I recite the Aerial Blessing: “To suspend thy blessed vestments is to be cherished by beloved’s Holy Spirit.”  I consider the unclean, dusty horrors that lie below me in this precarious space … where the laced-wear sit in their squallor.  And, of course, I practice my vertical grip, non-stop.  After all this time, though, it is easy to lose track of my Raison d’être.  

When I was first stretched and bent, I was taught that the gods would reward my levitational strength and commitment with the nearly uninterrupted honor of draped clothing.  I was taught that each of us would be called upon to keep the hallowed fabrics from plummeting to the sacrilegious floor.  Ours was a noble profession and every last one of us would be needed.  As I stoically hang here on the cold home bar, waiting for my turn to come, I pray to the gods for a way out of this closet and into some divine apparel.